


Maybe

by orphan_account



Series: Control [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dark, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Gen, M/M, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-24
Updated: 2016-01-08
Packaged: 2018-04-11 00:45:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4414472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a struggle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chasing After Danger

**Author's Note:**

> After a lot of texting with thedamnriddler, this idea came about to continue on with this back and forth between Stiles and Rafael.
> 
> We'll see where it goes. 
> 
> Will add tags as necessary.

“It isn’t going to work.”

Rafael pauses, sighs, and looks up. Leaning against the side of his desk, Stiles cross his arms over his chest, looking down at him. He’s visibly agitated; clothes wrinkled, eyes tired. Rafael can’t help but wonder what happened to get him teetering on the edge like this.

Leaning back in his chair, Rafael shrugs. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

Stiles’ gaze flits back to the office behind Rafael where his father is bent over too much paperwork. The good Sheriff has been back at work for the last five days after a meeting Rafael arranged with the board.

“Whatever good guy schtick you’re trying to play off in order to get back in Scott’s good graces,” Stiles clarifies. “It isn’t going to work.”

“What makes you think I did it for Scott?”

Stiles’ eyes fall back to him, brows going up, a mockery of a question. “Well, you didn’t do it for _me_.”

Rafael’s lips thin. He nods slowly. “Your father’s a good man.”

“Yes,” Stiles nods, tone dropping. “He is.”

He doesn’t say “don’t do it again.” He doesn’t need to. Rafael knows that whatever is going on in Beacon Hills has very little to do with the Sheriff and his abilities—and very much to do with the Sheriff’s son.

Rafael offers up a tight smile; Stiles doesn’t return it.

“Nice speaking to you, as always, Stiles.” Rafael says, watches Stiles rolls his eyes, and curls his hands into loose fists in his lap. “But I have work I need to be doing.”

“Right. Work.” Stiles hums, head bobbing as he looks back to his father’s office again, still hovering. “How’s your jaw by the way?”

At the mention of it, Rafael’s teeth grit. Stiles isn’t even looking at him, just pestering him like he always does, poking and prodding for some kind of reaction. Rafael has felt like he is pressed between pieces of glass, under a microscope, since he arrived back in Beacon Hills. Most, if not all, of that scrutiny has come from Stiles.

He waits. Waits until Stiles finally glances back down at him before offering up a thin smile that he knows Stiles understands, but the kid just lifts a slow brow and lingers at his desk. The push-pull of it all is exhausting.

“Fine,” Rafael finally says.

Stiles hums, elevator eyes dropping and then drawing back up. “Too bad.”

He pushes away from Rafael’s less and less temporary desk before padding away, heading straight for his dad’s office. Rafael’s fingers curl in tighter. He closes his eyes for a second, takes one deep breath and then another, before opening them again. Rolling his head to ease some of the tension across his shoulders, he reels back forward and tucks under his desk, eyes on his computer screen.

There is a notable sensation of awareness that prickles under Rafael’s skin. It’s a feeling he generally associates with danger. These days, it only needles to the surface when Stiles is near. Rafael supposes Stiles is his own brand of danger.

* * *

“Knock, knock, daddy-o.” Stiles leans in through the open door, rapping his knuckles against the wood of the jamb.

The Sheriff looks up, smile crooked, as he braces himself forward against his desktop with both of his hands. “I thought you had plans with Scott and co.”

“I still do,” Stiles tucks his hands into the pockets of his jeans, meandering into the office and plopping down into one of the leather chairs.

He tries to prop his feet up, but his dad knocks them away with a sharp swat. Stiles laughs, and the Sheriff takes a seat.

“What’s up, kid?” he asks.

“Wanted to know if you wanted to catch lunch,” Stiles shrugs a shoulder. “Plus, I wanted see you back in your rightful place on the throne.”

“Stiles,” he snorts, shaking his head with a soft laugh.

“No, no, let me revel.” Stiles grins, and the Sheriff makes a small show of leaning back into the plush seat of his desk chair. “Perfect.”

Still smiling, the Sheriff lifts his hands in surrender. “Alright. You came, you saw, you reveled. Now get outta here.”

“No lunch?”

“Not today,” the Sheriff grimaces. “I may have my position back, but I’m still under careful consideration. I still have a very large pile of unsolved cases that are weighing heavy right now, kid.”

Stiles’ nose wrinkles. “Right.”

“I could be impeached at any time,” the Sheriff states, as if it needs further emphasis.

“I get it,” Stiles mutters, shifting in his seat.

“It would—“ he pauses, glances at his open office door, and leans forward again. “It would be a lot easier if I could just tell them that a pack of werewolves blew through town and killed them.”

“Well, that and a Darach,” Stiles adds.

The Sheriff’s features pinch. “You’re so helpful.”

Stiles huffs out a tight breath palming the back of his head. “Sorry.”

“It’s uh... it’s okay, kiddo.” The Sheriff tells him. “I just can’t do lunch, is all.”

“Alright,” Stiles smiles, but it’s a bit weak, a bit forced. “Next time?”

“Next time,” the Sheriff nods.

Stiles is already pushing to his feet, already ambling towards the door, pacing out backwards and waving. “See you later, pops!”

“Home by seven for dinner,” the Sheriff calls after him.

“You got it--!”

Stiles falters, shoulder colliding with a solid chest. He trips up a bit, twisting around in a full circle before stopping in front of Agent McCall. There’s an itch at the back of his throat, and he tosses up a sharp smile that’s reflected with a tight lipped one.

“Watch where you’re going next time,” he says.

“Uh, ditto.” Stiles mutters, tone droll, taking a step back.

He takes a keen kind of glee out of the way the older man pauses to take a breath before speaking. “Let Scott know that our plans are still on for tonight.”

“Oh, no. I am not your messenger boy.” Stiles holds up his hands and then drops them, shaking his head. “Tell him yourself.”

Rafael’s eyes go tight at the corners and he shuffles forward, hands stuffed into his pockets like he’s restraining himself. Stiles stands his ground, chin up, and remembers how hard Rafael had gripped him. The touch had seemed to linger for days, though Stiles couldn’t find a bruise.

“Stiles,” Rafael says, low and dark, and Stiles feels something in him roll over and rumble—it makes him shudder, makes him stand straighter, makes his eyes narrow in a dangerous way. “Just tell him.”

Stiles pauses, their eyes locked for a long moment before he scoffs and looks away. “Fine.”

“Thank you.”

Stiles waves him off as he walks away.


	2. On the Dark Side

In high school, he was co-captain on the long distance running team.  It helped him get into college, earned him more than a couple of grand in scholarships.  He still holds one of the first place records for the track team at Beacon Hills High.  It's something he used to take a great deal of pride in.

When Scott was diagnosed with asthma at age four, he'd been disappointed.  He'd had plans to teach him-- about pacing, about lengthening the stride, about using it to his advantage-- but when the doctor handed that clunky inhaler over, he had known it wasn't going to happen.  He grew resentful as Scott grew up and did not grow out of his disability.  It was that resentment of not the illness but of his own son that made him realize maybe he wasn't cut out for being a parent.  Parenting is, after all, incredibly hard.

Running, however, has always been easy.  One foot in front of the other, nothing but the air in your lungs and the will to keep going pushing you further.  It makes the body ache.  Running jars everything, jams bones tight into sockets, strains muscles, burns the throat.  It hurts, but in the best way possible.  Rafael has always found a peace in it.

A punishment in it.

It's why he runs every morning, for as long as his legs will carry him.  When he travels, he takes advantage of the chance to run new paths.  In Beacon Hills, he finds himself following old ones-- ones that lead nowhere good-- through the brush in the Preserve.

He only stops when his phone goes off.  Jogging to a halt, he slides it free of the armband strapped to his bicep and presses it to his ear. 

"McCall."

He checks his pulse, listening to the urgent murmur coming in through the line.  His legs don't stop moving-- he can't stop moving-- not now, not when he's already started this way. 

"Where did they find the bodies?" he asks, a bit breathless, sweat rolling down his temple. 

There is a pause and he finally goes still when the officer on the other end tells him the location.  Tipping his head back, he stares up through the canopy of trees, free hand resting on a hip.  He swallows and nods.

"Keep the scene clear," he says.  "I'll be there in thirty.  Do  _not_ move  _anything_."

He hangs up the phone, eyes shutting, and taps it to his forehead.  Licking his lips, he glances down the long path before him-- knows that heading back the way he came would be faster-- and presses onward. 

He's already started.  He can't stop now.

* * *

Stiles lays on the horn again.  The front door opens and Scott pokes his head out, expression terse.  Stiles gestures wildly, wordlessly, and Scott holds up a finger.  Rolling his eyes skyward, Stiles slumps in the driver’s seat, leg ceaseless in its bouncing.

Ten minutes pass before Scott finally climbs into the jeep.  Stiles’ head lulls over, eyes narrowed and lips thin.  Scott blinks at him until Stiles’ brows shoot up pointedly.  Scott shrugs a shoulder.

“I had to finish doing the dishes,” he says.

“I hate you,” Stiles mutters, but he’s already starting the car and peeling away from the curb.  “Like, for real this time.”

Scott just smiles.  “Love you too, dude.”

Stiles just grunts.

“So what’s going on?” Scott asks, buckling his seat belt as Stiles takes a sharp right turn—heading for the edge of town and towards the Preserve.

“Bodies, Scottie. They found bodies this morning, buried on the Hale property.” Stiles mutters, fingers going tight over the wheel.

“Whose bodies?” he frowns.

Stiles glances his way, furtive, and then focuses back on the road. “I don’t know yet.”

Sighing, Scott rubs a tired hand over his face. “Shit.”

“That’s what I said when I heard the dispatch call,” Stiles tell him.

He keeps driving. They don’t talk until they hit the Preserve. The steady hum of the jeep’s engine keeps them company. Stiles’ left leg won’t stop bouncing.

“Did Derek say anything--?”

“No,” Scott cuts him off, shaking his head. “Nothing.”

“And he’s still in Argentina with Cora,” Stiles concludes with a tight grimace. “So we can’t ask.”

Scott pauses, then shrugs a tentative shoulder. “I mean... We kind of can.”

“What are you--?” Stiles falters, looks his way and sees how Scott already looks guilty, and then starts shaking his head. “No. No way, dude.”

“It might be our only option,” Scott argues.

“He’s a _psychopath_ ,” Stiles insists. “Helpful as he may have been in the past—if you can even call him that, which I wouldn’t, by the way—he’s not exactly trustworthy.”

“And I’m not saying that we should start inviting him to the weekly movie night,” Scott adds. “I’m just saying that he might have some of the answers we’re looking for.”

Stiles’ lips purse, eyes squinting in a raw kind of annoyance. “Fine,” he mutters. “But I don’t like it.”

“You don’t have to.”

“And I’m not gonna be the one to talk to him,” Stiles asserts. “So... y’know... good luck with that.”

Scott snorts, trying and failing to hide a laugh behind his hand. “Thanks, dude.”

“Yeah, you’re welcome.”

They park the jeep half a mile out from where the dispatcher said the bodies had been discovered. The rest of the way is taken up on foot. Stiles grouses quietly the entire way, listing things Scott needs to look out for if and when he goes to visit Peter.

He’s motioning with broad movements, arms everywhere, went Scott hushes him. Going still, Stiles looks his way, sees the frown on Scott’s face and presses his lips tight together to keep from asking. If he strains, he can hear the faint sound of people talking. Scott brings a finger up to his own mouth, then gestures forward. They stop at the edge of the scene, hiding behind a bunch of trees and waiting.

Scott peers around the edges first. He hisses and jerks back, features pinched, and Stiles swats at his chest expectantly.

 _My dad_ , he mouths and Stiles rolls his eyes.

Inching closer, Stiles peaks out; gaze darting from uniform to uniform. He licks his lips, weight shifting from foot to foot, and Scott taps him—shaking his head when Stiles looks back. Lips thinning, Stiles gestures forward, to the two open holes beyond yellow caution tape. Scott shakes his head again, more firmly, and Stiles’ brows draw together.

“What’s the deal?” he asks in something that is barely a whisper.

“I can’t get found by my dad, Stiles.” Scott replies.

“Why the fuck not?” Stiles glances back out, leaning heavy against the side of the tree.

“Because I ditched him for dinner last night,” Scott admits quietly and Stiles twists around sharply.

“ _Dude_ ,” he says, hitting his shoulder, mouth already stretching into a wide smile. “I’m so proud I could kiss you. Why’d you ditch?”

“Shh,” Scott hushes him, stretching to make sure no one heard them, but his grin is lopsided. “I just... I stayed out later with Allison after you and Isaac left. We talked.”

Stiles’ brows shoot up. “That’s... good, right?”

Scott shrugs a humble shoulder, still grinning. “I guess.”

Stiles’ gaze flits over his face as Scott keeps his keen sense focused on the officers only a dozen or so paces away. He clears his throat softly, and then gestures off to the right with his head.

“Go cause a distraction for me, then bail out.” Stiles tells him. “I’ll figure out who is buried over there and text you later.”

“You sure?” Scott asks.

“Positive,” Stiles nods, hand landing at Scott’s shoulder and giving a small squeeze. “Then we’ll meet up and go talk to psycho Peter. See what he knows about all this.”

Scott beams. “I love you, man.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, fond and amused. “Go.”

He takes off, darting a little further into the woods, leaving Stiles behind. Stiles waits until he hears a very human howl and then a crash, muffling his laugh behind a hand as Scott’s dad barks out orders to the officers.

Peering around the edge of the tree again, watching the uniformed officers take their leave, guns drawn in caution. He eyes Rafael carefully, sees him hovering and glancing at his watch, probably waiting—impatiently—for the forensics specialist to arrive. Crouching, Stiles plucks up a rock from the brush, reels back and chucks it at an angle—away from himself. Rafael’s head darts up, expression tight, and Stiles waits, waits, waits until he proceeds forward slowly before throwing another rock that way.

Rafael jogs out of the small clearing towards the noise. Stiles is careful to keep the trees between them when he passes a few paces away. Creeping carefully, Stiles makes his way under the yellow caution tape and over to the shallow graves at the base of the thick black oak on the opposite side of the clearing.

The area is not anywhere near the Hale manor, but it is on Hale property. Of the Preserve, a good hundred acres belongs to the Hales surrounding their secluded home—or what is left of it. Stiles used to toe the boarders between Beacon Hills’ wilderness park and the Hales’ property line when he was younger, constantly being scolded by his mother if and when she found out. It isn’t farfetched, the idea that someone came out and buried a few bodies deep in the woods, not knowing where the private property ended or began.

Stiles had been hoping, praying really, that it would be something like that. Some old missing persons case from before he was born finally getting solved. When he sees the sprinkling of wolfsbane, purple and bright against the earthy browns of the forest floor, he knows he isn’t going to like what he finds in the two holes, side by side, at the base of the oak.

On his hands and knees, he scrambles close, looking into the graves and feeling the earth try and twist beneath him. His stomach rolls and there is a hollowness in his chest. Their eyes are pale, staring up at him, mouths open—dirt spilling over their lips—cold and accusing. He had expected strangers, or hunters, or even the Alphas. He hadn’t expected—

“Erica Reyes and Vernon Boyd,” Rafael says, jaw clenched when Stiles looks his way, padding back over at a controlled pace.

Stiles pushes to his feet and trips away, feet moving too fast beneath himself. Everything sways as Rafael calls his name, and he breaks through the yellow tape in order to brace himself against the side of a nearby tree before contracting over and vomiting onto the ground, entire body heaving.

Behind him, he thinks he hears Rafael curse, but his mind is swimming and soon the only noise he can hear is a high pitched ringing that comes from nowhere but his own head.


	3. In a Million Miles

Rafael leads Stiles away from the scene by the scruff of his neck. His grip is firm, fingers long, hand big at Stiles’ nape.

At his side, Stiles shuffles along, tripping over every root and divot on the way. If it wasn’t for the pallor of his skin and the way his hands keep shaking at his sides, Rafael would have thought it was a ploy to bother him as much as possible. As it is, he thinks Stiles is frazzled, shaken up, at seeing his classmates like that.

It makes something in him stir, something that tastes bitter at the back of his mouth, for tricking Stiles into coming out to the crime scene in the first place. For letting dispatch make the call, despite first responders already being present. The other part of him, the more reasonable and pragmatic part, knows that shocking him like this might be the only way to get him to talk. It doesn’t sit well; rolls in his stomach like some foul beat that he has to swallow down. He’s tempted—always so tempted—to stop and assure Stiles—for whatever that might be worth.

Instead, he grits his teeth and leads him further from the scene towards where Stiles says he parked his jeep.

“This is a _crime scene_ , Stiles.” He tells him, as if the kid hadn’t already figured that out. “You can’t just walk into it whenever you want.”

“I know,” Stiles spits, trying to shrug out of his grip, ears going pink. “This isn’t exactly my first rodeo.”

“You sure about that, cowboy?” Rafael’s grip just goes tighter. “Because you’re looking a little green around the gills to me.”

Stiles’ mouth twists, some maladaptive expression of disgust—maybe rage. It is better than the numb look he’d been wearing since he finished puking his breakfast up.

“I wasn’t expecting that,” he mumbles, too quiet for normal.

“You know the code for dead bodies. It was exactly what you were expecting.” Rafael states. “Or was it the _who_ that surprised you?”

Stiles sneers, twisting away from him and batting Rafael’s arm aside. “ _Fuck_ you.”

His fingers flex, palms itching. For a moment, he sways forward, as if to take him in his hands again. He doesn’t. Tucking his hands into his pant pockets, he pads after Stiles as the boy trudges onward.

“They were more than just your classmates,” he states, watching the way Stiles’ shoulders go tight. “You and Scott—you were both seen palling around with them on campus, at lacrosse, out in town.”

“I wouldn’t really call it palling around,” Stiles corrects him over his shoulder, not looking back.

Rafael’s fingers curl tight. He wants to grip Stiles by the jaw and turn his face towards him, make him look at him, make him lie to his face rather than to the autumn breeze. He doesn’t.

“What would you call it, then?”

“A matter of _circumstance_ ,” Stiles bites, digging his keys out of his jeans.

Rafael’s lips thin. The blue of the jeep is a bright contrast against the rest of the Preserve. It is off to the side of a dirt road that leads the back way to the Hale property and not a commonly known path through the Preserve.

There are files in his desk that tell Rafael Stiles probably knows these back ways because he’s been seen hanging around Derek Hale. It isn’t a comforting thought. There is rarely a good reason for a twenty three year old man to be lingering around minors. The fact that there are now bodies on the Hale property does not ease his sense of apprehension that he’s had since finding out Stiles and his son had been seen out with Derek more than once.

“They were your friends, weren’t they?” Rafael asks.

Stiles falters ahead of him, a few paces from the jeep. There is a thrill of triumph. Rafael’s chin tips up, shoulders squaring, and he treads close before stopping. He leaves space there between them.

“They were your friends,” he repeats. “And now they’re dead.”

Stiles rubs a hand over his face, movements rough, stilted.

“They’re _dead_ , Stiles—“

“I _know_ ,” he shouts, winding around to face him, eyes narrowed—unsympathetic and severe.

Rafael inhales sharply, nostrils flaring briefly, and his voice goes low. “Then you know that in order to catch whoever did this, I need you to _cooperate_. I can help you.”

Stiles’ head tips back and he laughs. It’s a hollow, bitter little thing, and Rafael’s jaw ticks tight at the sound.

Their eyes meet, and Stiles licks his lips before shuffling closer. He is all jagged edges; harsh corners. If Rafael tried to reach out anymore, he’d get cut. For a second, with Stiles’ gaze darting between his eyes, Rafael thinks he might actually get a straight answer.

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” Stiles tells him, tone dull, expression going deliberately blank. “Wish I could help, but I can’t.”

“Stiles—“

“Really, though,” Stiles offers up a fleeting, terse smile, stepping back—away from Rafael, towards the jeep—jingling his keys. “Good luck.”

Rafael feels a tug in his gut. He wants to sink his fingers into the material of Stiles’ shirt, wants to shove him against the side of the jeep, wants to demand answers out of him. He doesn’t.

“Stiles, just—“ Rafael swallows, tongue heavy, and then clears his throat. “Tell Scott to call me. And think about what I said.  I can help.”

Stiles hesitates.  His eyes drop; for a very long second, he looks lost.  He looks like the young boy Rafael remembers from before leaving.  Fragile.  Like he'll split apart into a million pieces if someone doesn't hold him together.  Then his features go firm and he turns away from Rafael without a word. 

He bites the inside of his cheek to keep from commenting when Stiles’ hands shake as he unlocks his car. Crossing his arms over his chest, he waits and watches Stiles climb up into the jeep, resists the urge to reach out and pull him back.  Keep him from leaving.  Wonders if he could just get his hands on Stiles long enough, he might be able to pry something out of him.  Knows that the gut instinct to do so is just an excuse.  He reaches out and catches the door before Stiles can slam it shut in his face.

“Whatever it is that’s going on around here? I’m going to figure it out.”

Stiles snorts, knuckles white where he’s gripping the door handle. “Sure you are, Agent McCall.”

The title does not ring with a sense of respect the way that it should. Granted, Stiles has never had much respect for him.

“Tell Scott to call me,” he demands instead. “And tell him that if you two ever pull something like this again, I’ll arrest the both of you.”

He lets the door go, and Stiles snaps it shut with a metal _clap_. The engine rumbles to life, and Rafael barely steps far enough away to be considered safe before Stiles takes off.

Unholstering his radio from his belt, he holds it up to his mouth and clicks the receiver on. “Detective Rhodes.”

“ _Copy_ ,” comes through the static.

“Go ahead and let the forensics team do their work,” he says, eyes still on the retreating tail lights of Stiles’ jeep, wonders if the police scanner in it is picking up this conversation too. “Let’s get the bodies bagged up and get out of here.”

“ _Understood, sir_.”

“And Rhodes?”

“ _Yes?_ ”

“Make sure that they’re thorough,” he orders, finally turning away, on hand on his hip as he begins to head back to the scene and away from all of the _maybes_ that keep fluttering through his head.


	4. Making My Heart Race

“The salmon or the chicken piccata?”

Stiles’ right eye twitches.  His lips purse, jaw working briefly, and slaps his hand down on the table a bit too hard before giving Scott a dark look.

Stiff in his seat, Scott glances down at his own lap, and his lips roll in as he bites them.  To keep from laughing or to keep from apologizing, Stiles isn’t sure.  Stiles wants to reach over and shake him, but turns a terse smile towards Peter where he’s sitting across the table from the pair of them.  The halfcocked grin Peter gives him in reply has Stiles’ fingers curling in until short nails dig bluntly into his palms.

“I always figured you were more of a steak man,” Stiles replies on a tight breath.  “Of the so bloody it’s still mooing variety.”

“Really, Stiles,” Peter chides, folding his menu shut and setting it on the table between them.  “You should know by now that I save those kinds of meals for... special occasions.”

“Oh, my god, this was a terrible idea.” Stiles mutters, eyes closing as he pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“Stiles,” Scott protests softly.  “We need his—“

“We’ll figure something else out,” Stiles insists.  “E-mail, long distance call prices, _carrier pigeons_ —“

“Stiles,” Peter cuts him off.  “You have questions and I have answers.  All you need to do is ask.”

His mouth opens, retort a sharp tang on the tip of his tongue, and Stiles leans forward and then freezes.  Their waitress smiles politely as she sets down three glasses of ice water.  His teeth click when his mouth snaps shut.

“You boys need another minute?” she asks.

“Yes, please.”  Peter replies, and then they’re alone again—or as alone as they can be in a dim but popular family owned restaurant right off of Main Street just before dinner time. 

When Peter’s focus falls back to Stiles, Stiles sighs.  “Kind of hard to ask the questions I need to in a place like this.”

“Then ask them quietly,” Peter shrugs a shoulder.

Leaning back, hands coming up in some kind of surrender before scrubbing over his face, Stiles wordlessly hands the reigns over to Scott before he says something stupid or does something reckless.  He rubs over the top of his head and squeezes his eyes shut, hair mussing under his palms.

He’s been scrambled since the Preserve.  Teetering on the edge of something more than unpleasant; he feels restless in his own skin.  He keeps seeing the blankness in their eyes, keeps feeling that guilt pit in him, like tar turning over.  He has not been sleeping, and this day will only add to that disquiet that has been plaguing him for the last few weeks.

His hands drop down to his nape and he grips the back of his own neck.  Something in him quakes.  He goes still as Scott asks Peter some innocuous questions— _where is Derek, how can he contact him_ —and stops breathing for half a second.  The headache that has been threatening to debilitate him ebbs a bit with his palm pressed to his nape.  It offers some kind of relief, but feels off—feels wrong.  It does not steady him the way it had when—

His eyes shoot open and his hands drops into his lap.  Biting the inside of his cheek, he forces himself to focus on the conversation Scott and Peter are having.

“—can’t reach him at all?” Scott frowns.

Peter rolls his eyes skyward.  “I’m not saying I can’t reach him at _all_ —I’m saying it will take some _time_.”

“But you can do it,” Scott concludes.

“Yes,” Peter nods.  “Or you could just do it yourself.”

Scott blinks.  He shares a look with Stiles, and then Peter slides a piece of paper across the table top. 

Plucking it up, Stiles unfolds it, eyes skimming over the address.  His teeth grit together, and he narrows his eyes at Peter.

“If you had this, why couldn’t you just text it to us?” Stiles hisses, leaning in again as Peter’s smile goes wide.  “Why did we have to come and meet you here?”

“Well, you couldn’t expect me to invite you two to my apartment, now could you?” Peter asks, all mock innocence.  “How can I trust you?”

“How--?” Stiles’ chest feels tight.  “ _What_?”

“You both have been involved in my death before,” Peter adds.  “I had to take precautions.”

“Okay, _first of all_ , no.” Stiles holds up a finger, nostrils flaring; Peter looks far too amused.  “You are the most skeezy person on the _planet_.  You don’t get to play the Mr. Victim card with us.  And _two_ , I wasn’t asking why we had to meet _here_.  I’m asking why we had to meet _at all_.”

Scott nods.  “You could have just given us the address when I told you I needed to ask Derek something.  Why didn’t you?”

Peter glances between them, sitting back in his chair with an ease that makes Stiles’ skin crawl.  “To be completely honest, I thought you’d ask more interesting questions.”

His gaze falls on Stiles.  Expectant.  Waiting.

The air gushes right out of Stiles’ lungs.  He remembers their faces—covered in dirt—remembers how they were laying, cold and broken in the earth.  He swallows down the bile at the back of his throat and lowers his voice.

“Why were Erica and Boyd buried on Hale property?”

Scott looks his way sharply: shocked.

“Because we needed to put the bodies somewhere,” Peter says, eyes never leaving Stiles’ face.

Stiles licks his lips, something cold and hard coiling in his belly.  “Are there more?”

Peter smiles.  “Yes.”

* * *

 

_Sorry for missing dinner. Try again tomorrow?_

Rafael frowns down at the text.  Sitting at a red light, on his way back from the morgue to the police station, he taps out his reply. 

_What about tonight?_

He does not get an immediate response.  Tapping on Scott’s name, he pulls up the call button, and then stalls.  His thumb hovers over the screen, almost touching, but not wanting to get sent to voicemail again.  He sighs, staring down at the numbers there for a long time, until someone behind him lays on their horn.

Startling, he tosses his phone into the passenger seat of his rental car, looking up to see the green light.  He accelerates forward slowly, waving apologetically over his shoulder.  Hopefully the impatient driver behind him sees it. 

He turns onto Main Street, fingers flexing over the steering wheel.  The day had been a long one, and he had a new stack of paperwork to fill out that would change the status of two missing persons cases into what was looking like a serial murderer—though, both the boy and girl appeared to have been mauled.  The claw marks on Vernon Boyd’s chest had been particularly deep.

The entire situation is just one big mess.  Rafael has had a headache since ushering Stiles away from the crime scene; he still wasn’t sure if it is because of the stress or if the guilt of sending Stiles away shaking.

His phone buzzes from the passenger seat.  Stretching over, he snags it up, reading the text.

 _Plans with Stiles_.

That’s when he looks up and sees the jeep.  There is still mud on the tires, on the blue paint job.  It’s parked parallel to the curb outside of Murphy’s diner. 

Rafael turns right at the next corner, pulling onto 3rd Avenue before he slides into a metered parking spot.  It’s thankfully Sunday, so he doesn’t have to bother hunting for quarters to feed the thing green.  He locks the car with a _chirp_ after sliding out, and half jogs his way back around to Main Street.  It isn’t until he sees Stiles’ jeep again that he realizes his heart is pounding. 

He stops just outside of the diner door.  He reminds himself that this isn’t about Stiles even as his stomach twists.  Scott is in there with him, and he has more pressing matters to deal with back at the Sheriff’s office when this is all over.  His palms are sweating.  He feels torn in too many directions.

The door jingles open, and he’s nearly run over.  He catches himself, just barely, on the edge of the door and curses.

Stiles falters in front of him.  He blinks up, eyes large and owlish, his pupils blown out wide.  There is a flush on his cheeks paired with an all too familiar frustration that leaves Rafael wordless and wary for a moment that is far too long.  Stiles looks like he’s on the verge of raw panic; he’s shaking in his own skin.

“Stiles, we can’t just go running off into the woods to—“ Scott stops just behind his friend, and Rafael’s gaze jerks to him.  “Dad.”

“Scott,” he nods, shifting, standing straighter.  “What are you going into the woods to do?”

“Um.”

Rafael feels a heady sense of satisfaction knowing his son is still a terrible liar.  He looks back to Stiles and frowns when he sees the dazed way Stiles is staring just beyond Rafael’s left shoulder.  He ducks his head, attempts to catch Stiles’ gaze, but only meets blind eyes.

“Stiles?” he asks, voice going soft, right hand twitching forward to touch—fingers just barely brushing his arm.

Scott elbows him, startling Stiles out of whatever stupor he’d been trapped in.  “Dude, you okay?”

Stiles grunts, rubbing his side absently.  “Fine.  I just—I’m fine.”

Scott looks as dubious as Rafael feels.  “You sure?”

“Yep,” he _pops_ the end of the word, shrugging away the remnants of the thought that had caught him, already backing away towards his jeep.  “In fact, I just remembered I have a date with my history textbook.  Talk later?”

“ _Stiles_ ,” Scott scowls, following after him for a few paces be3fore catching him by the arm and reeling him in so close Rafael thinks they might kiss.

Instead, Scott leans in, voice lowered.  Whatever it is that he says, Rafael can’t make it out from where he’s still holding the door open.  Stiles glances his way furtively more than once before Scott finally releases him.  Something in Rafael’s chest is burning.

Stiles salutes them both before turning and making a hurried escape.  Rafael sways forward, as if to chase him as Stiles climbs into his car and pulls away for the second time that day, but he catches himself as Scott turns back.  Scott’s jaw flexes; Rafael waits.

“So,” Scott shuffles.

“What was that about?”

Scott shrugs.  “He’s uh… been acting weird since… well, since—“

“This morning in the Preserve?”

Scott’s face colors with embarrassment.  He nods.  “Kind of,” he mumbles.

Gesturing to the open diner door, Rafael lifts a brow.  “Want to grab a bite and talk about it?”

Scott hesitates.

“…or we can talk about school,” Rafael offers, stilted, unsure.  “Or that Argent girl I keep seeing you with.”

His son beams up at him and nods.  For the first time in a long time, Rafael thinks he might be able to salvage this.  He might still be able to be a halfway decent father.  Work can wait.

As he follows Scott into the diner, he pushes his worries aside for later.

* * *

 

Dinner with his son goes well.  Scott is slow to open up—understandably so.  He’s cautious about what he says, about how he says it, and Rafael hates that Scott is burdened with secrets so heavy that he can barely talk about his life without editing every word that comes out of his mouth.  He hates that he’s put Scott in the position to lie, in the position to not trust him. 

They carefully avoid one part of the diner, and the waitress keeps giving Scott a funny look like she has déjà vu.  Rafael is vigilant not to ask because he doesn’t want Scott to keep lying despite how curious he is.  He can be oblivious for a single night. 

Halfway through dinner, through Scott tentatively telling him about his—now ex—girlfriend Allison and how they might be getting back together, Rafael finds his son relaxing bit by bit.  He seems hopeful; Rafael thinks hopeful is a good look on him.  He watches how Scott keeps checking his phone, occasionally tapping out a message and frowning when he doesn’t get anything back.  He waits until Scott gets up to use the restroom before giving into the urge to pluck up Scott’s cell, swiping it open and tapping on the most recent messages.

It’s what he finds there that has him trapesing through the Preserve that night, flashlight out, gun carefully holstered to his hip.  It’s what keeps him moving through the shadows and the brush even when the autumn temperature has dropped enough to numb his fingers, his ears, his nose.  It’s what has his heart pounding steadily in his chest, pulse at a heady rush, fear and apprehension mingling as one.  It’s why Scott’s urgent texts keep playing through his head.

_Stiles don’t go out there tonight._

_Dude come on_

_Please don’t_

_Wait for me, we’ll go tomorrow after practice._

_Stiles??_

_Be safe.  I don’t trust Peter._

Peter Hale.  Rafael knew of him more than he actually knew him.  On his way to becoming a big shot lawyer before the tragic Hale Fire, Peter had been in a coma for a number of years afterwards, only to disappear right out of the hospital after his niece had been found torn in two and buried on Hale property.  A lot like Erica Reyes and Vernon Boyd. 

The pattern was too similar for him to dismiss.  Even if Peter had eventually made a reappearance months later, _apparently_ back from an intensive care unit abroad that his nephew had _apparently_ secreted him away to, fully healed and scar free.  It didn’t help that more bodies started piling up and more people started disappearing not long after that reappearance.  If it isn’t Peter’s fault, then he is somehow directly tied to what has been happening in Beacon Hills. 

And if that is the case, Rafael can’t turn a blind eye to Stiles running off on his own into the woods, where too many bodies have been found, on the word of Peter Hale. 

The Preserve is too loud at night in the way that quiet things make your ears ring.  As he moves closer to the Hale property, hoping he’ll find Stiles somewhere close by, the trees grow denser.  The cold is intense; it’s going to be an early winter this year.  Distantly, his focus too engrossed on any sound he might pick up or anything he might see, he thinks he should have brought backup and hopes that Stiles is wearing a coat. 

He’s trailing the outer perimeter of where he’s fairly certain the Hale property ends and the Preserve begins when he hears it.  A voice, a curse, a shuffling through the leaves.  Rafael goes carefully still.  Head canted, he listens with his breath held tight in his chest, and waits until he hears another slur of curse words. 

Reaching to his belt, he unsnaps the holster on his gun, just in case.  Clicking the flashlight off, he eases toward the sound.  It takes him longer than he’d like to work his way cautiously through the thickening trees.  When he finally gets to the clearing, he’s not quite sure what he expected, but Stiles standing barefoot in nothing else but his pajamas, shaking in front of a massive stump, is nowhere on the list. 

His hand goes to his glock out of instinct.  He looks around in what dim light filters down from the night sky above and finds nothing but Stiles. 

Stiles with his hunched shoulders and chattering teeth.  Stiles with his bare feet, with his messy hair, with his sweat slick skin pale in the half moon light.  Stiles trembling and staring at a _stump_ , muttering under his breath to _himself_ , and suddenly Rafael doesn’t care what this does and does not have to do with the case.  All he cares about is the fact that he thinks Stiles’ lips are turning blue. 

Rushing forward, across the clearing, Rafael whispers his name, then says it, and holds out his hand.  He touches Stiles’ arm, feels the chill clinging to his skin and mutters his own string of curses before shrugging out of his coat. 

“Stiles, can you hear me?” he asks, finding his voice rough, and he drapes his jacket gently over Stiles’ shoulders.

The heat seems to shock him out of whatever daze he’s in.  He starts, eyes blinking rapidly, and he stumbles backward so abruptly that Rafael thinks he might fall.  Catching him by the biceps, he keeps his grip firm, and Stiles sags.  It’s as if the breath in him goes, gusting out of his lungs in a rush that makes him so dizzy he falls into Rafael’s hands, boneless and trembling.

Stomach clenching, Rafael holds him up, worried Stiles might be sick the way he had been earlier after seeing the bodies.  He shakes his head, one arm looping over Stiles’ torso, the other hand coming to rest at the middle of Stiles’ back as the boy’s legs buckle.  Long fingers clutch at Rafael’s arm, nails digging into flesh, and Rafael lets him.

“It’s alright,” he mutters, holding Stiles close, not really sure if he believes it.  “It’s going to be alright, Stiles.”

He doesn’t think it will be.


End file.
